So here I sit.  No plans.  No possible plans, nothing I could plan that would make any sense. Nothing that could invoke any kind of enthusiasm. Chatrooms on all day, a few people look, look away. What do you see, beautiful men, when you look at me? How desperate do I seem? How sad? How tearful? How revolting.
Here I sit. Sunshine outside. Must be lovely. Would like to be out in it, but not alone, not alone. Too much beauty to handle all alone. Beauty must be shared or there's pain. Pain long suppressed. Pain of all the beauty ever seen that I wanted to share and couldn't. Beauty I've seen others share with their beautiful lovers. The beauty of the sharing itself. Beauty not for me.
So here I sit. Dreading evening. Afternoon bad enough, but evening worse. Longing for tiredness, longing for the escape, hoping tomorrow brings something new. Sleep, retreating, child-like. foetus-like, everything-better-in-the-morning. Not that it is.
So here I sit. Not even the courage to phone. Human voice would help, maybe, a few platitudes (yes really), anything to remind me I'm not worthless, not maybe quite that loathsome. But no courage. In case it'd be inconvenient. In case I weep down the phone. In case I can't think what to say. In case fat bald old poof crying down the phone is too much to inflict on anyone.
Here I sit. Tea-drinking; in the world yet outside of it; craving God knows what; no clue where to find it, where to look, who to ask; do some laundry, good; washing-up, good; keep busy. Going through the motions, yes. Motions in all senses; rearranging life-turds; exercise in futility.
Here I sit. How many years have I done this? How many more till it's done. How long till peace?

So. Here I sit.

So often, over the years, this has been my escape.

When all else fails, sleep.  Even if it is still daylight.  Even if the rest of the world is still out there enjoying itself.  Or especially then.

Yes, it's running away.
But at least it's something I'm in control of.

Please don't let me dream.

Ivor Cutler.  To my shame, I'd forgotten all about him (and he only died a few years ago).  I even have an album or two, but for some reason I hadn't listened to anything of his for a long time.

Which is a pity.

I was reminded of his glorious weirdness this morning, when somebody posted a video of Looking for Truth With A Pin on a forum site I subscribe to, which led to a happy, silly hour reacquainting myself with him.
Here are a few to be going on with:

Pickle Your Knees
How Are You Shut Up
Shoplifters
I'm Happy
and the wondrous Big Jim

This is a ridiculous sequence of events:

Wake up, in a fairly positive mood, not exactly euphoric, but certainly ready to do battle with the day.
Have a pleasant and cheery telephone conversation with a friend.
Go out to run a few errands (post office, bank, etc.) - all easy and comparatively stress-free.
Return home, and realise that I'm in a miserable, self-loathing, and rather fragile mood, craving reassurance.

Why?  Nothing whatever in the preceding hours has been the sort of thing that ought to trigger such a reaction.  Even the queue at the post office wasn't particularly slow, or especially full of annoying people.

This sort of thing has been happening more often lately, which is a worry.  It's almost as though the only thing keeping the flow of positivity going, is a conscious effort to do so:  In other words, if I forget to constantly remind myself I'm a worthwhile person, the default state is an automatic belief that I'm a waste of space.  Which is daft.

Very glad I've got a shooting day tomorrow. A thing to look forward to, and (assuming I don't cock stuff up), something to boost the ego.

"I am a decent person.
I do have a right to be who I am.
Most people don't hate me.
I have at least some skill in what I'm trying to do"

I arrive at the station just in time to miss one train home - the next is due at 22:57, and is flagged on the display screens as "on time". Hooray, although that still means a wait of around a quarter of an hour.  Hey ho.  I settle into my usual standing/pacing/gazing into space routine reserved for such occasions.  I fantasise, as I often do in such situations, about pressing fire alarms, and other such antisocial activities, just to see what would happen. I look across to the opposite platform, and imagine how easy it ought to be to just hop down on to the tracks, skip across, and up the other side.

A young policemen appears on the opposite platform. They're always young now, of course. He strides with considerable purpose towards the footbridge.  As he reaches the steps, a WPC appears, heading in the same direction, also at quite a pace, but unable to keep up.  Idly, I imagine some sort of previous tiff between them, that prevents them walking together, even in the course of their job.
Both disappear up the steps.  There is a pause.
Quite suddenly, from behind the buildings on our platform, a young man emerges, running. He carries a red motorcycle helmet, and wears a t-shirt and shorts. He sprints straight to the edge of the platform, jumps down, runs heavily across the tracks, feet slipping on the ballast, and scrambles awkwardly up the other side, bashing and grazing his knee on the top of the platform as he does so (well that's one question answered).  He forces himself back to his feet, dashes out of the open gate into the sliproad, dropping a gove as he does so, and disappears. The sound of running feet quickly fades.

There's an appreciable pause, then the police reach the bottom of the steps on this side of the tracks, and start asking if anybody's seen a young man with a red bike helmet. There is much gesticulating and pointing from the assembled passengers.  The police retrace their steps across the footbridge, at a run. A taxi driver on the other side points up the sliproad:  "He's just up there - hiding in that bush."  The police disappear, and there's another moderate pause.

I check the train time on the display.  It now says that the 22:57 is late, due at 23:00. As I watch, it ticks over to 23:01

The police reappear, each bearing a handcuffed youth (oh, so there were two?).  They collect the discarded glove, and march them off to a waiting car.  Much mirth from one of the lads at the prospect of "spending the night in Brentwood nick."

Another pause.  The display now advises 23:05

The WPC returns, performs a quick seach of the platform for any other discarded items, but returns empty-handed.

The time is now 22:46 - the display unapologetically assures us our train won't show until 23:06

At exactly 22:47, the 22:47 to Liverpool Street glides into the platform.  The display, perhaps in embarrassment, is now blank.